


Turning

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2010-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regret. Reunion. Rebirth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning

The last memory Tommy has of Adam is hazy, rushed, all up until the end. It's a swirl of phone calls and meetings behind closed doors and Adam trying and failing to explain, and then the suits pulling Adam away, toward a waiting limo. Adam looks back only once, and that's where things slow down and get sharp. Tommy can remember his face like it was yesterday, eyes impossibly blue and impossibly sad, ringed in heavy liner, his skin invisible under the thick foundation he wears like a mask, his lips turned down almost imperceptibly at the corners. Even cloaked in regret, even like this, in the midst of gray twilight and even grayer studio heads, Adam _shines._

Then he turns and disappears into the car, and is gone.

It's the last Tommy sees of him for five years. His image is everywhere, of course, impossible to miss – Adam is more successful as the male equivalent of a packaged pop princess than he ever was as the quirky, creative, impossible-to-define artist he'd been back when Tommy had played with him – but it's not the Adam Tommy remembers, not the person behind the persona.

And now here he is, on Tommy's doorstep in the middle of the night, smiling hesitantly and stumbling over a hello – the first words to pass between them in years. _Years._

Tommy doesn't know what to feel, much less what to say. So he just stands there, gripping the open door, and feels the devastation begin to shape his features.

Adam reaches out, ever the caregiver, apparently, even after all the fame. But Tommy pulls back, out of Adam's reach, and for just a moment he considers shutting the door in Adam's face before this goes any further. There's a movie paused in the other room, and his take-out is cooling on a TV tray in front of it, and as depressing as that might be on a Saturday night, it's way more comfortable what's waiting for him if he lets Adam in.

Adam pulls back and shoves his hands in his pockets, and his face falls, but he stands his ground. "I was at your gig last night. Good stuff," he says, his tone all false lightness.

Tommy shrugs. "I guess. Small."

There's no good way for Adam to respond to that, and an uncomfortable silence drifts in like rising fog, making the space between them thick and impassable.

Adam clears his throat. "So, uh, I thought...I was in the area, and I thought you might want to go for a drive. It's been a long time. Too long."

Tommy closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. He wants to rage at that, really go after Adam, scream at him for giving him a taste of everything he's ever wanted and then leaving him, leaving _all_ of them behind without a second thought. More than that, though, he wants to find the words to express just how _not fucking fair_ it is for Adam to show up like this, totally out of nowhere, looking like temptation itself came by to apologize.

But when he opens his eyes again, Tommy's gaze catches not on the beautiful lines of Adam's too-thin face, or his perfectly sculpted hair, or the shining rings on his fingers that are probably worth more than everything he owns. Instead, Tommy looks at Adam's thumbs, resting through his belt loops while the other fingers are hidden away in tight pockets. His nails are ragged, uneven, bitten down to the quick, and the black polish on them is chipped and worn, the one visible chink in his suit of name-brand armor. And when Tommy meets Adam's eyes, his anger fades, and he can see how hard it was for Adam to come here tonight, what it means that he did, and he can't turn away.

"Yeah. Ok."

The car is sleek and black, and it looks brand new. The top is down, taking advantage of the sweet coolness of the evening, and Adam looks just right in it, the very picture of celebrity.

"Nice," Tommy says, vague, safe.

"Thanks."

They speed off down near-empty streets, the wind blowing Tommy's hair in his face and stinging in his eyes. Talking is impossible over the wind noise and the engine, so they drive in silence, and while it's not quite peaceful, it's all right. Almost nice. Tommy watches the houses and palm trees blur by and tries not to think, tries not to glance at Adam.

Adam takes them to the ocean, some out-of-the way little corner of sand and water, and they leave their shoes in the car and walk out onto the beach, listening to the waves, watching the white crests come and go in the darkness. The breeze here is brisk, almost cold, and Tommy wraps his arms around himself and tries not to remember the warmth of Adam's body, the way Tommy used to fit right into his arms.

He waits. Adam will talk when he's ready, and he's here to talk, Tommy's sure of it. So sure that he almost hates himself for still knowing Adam so well, for hanging onto such irrelevant memories so tightly. He wonders if Adam still knows him. Wonders if he's even the same person he was back in those days, or if that Tommy had just been an anomaly, a half-finished creature born out of the sphere of Adam's influence and the reflection of who the world saw him to be.

"I'm sorry."

"Adam..."

"I know you won't believe me, but..."

"It doesn't matter."

"I just..."

Adam's voice breaks, and Tommy looks up to see his eyes shining in the barely-there light, tears beginning to roll slowly down his face, taking traces of black makeup with them. And fuck, that hurts, hurts just to look at. Tommy grits his teeth and digs his fingernails into his arms and forces the last five years to the front of his mind, five years of tiny bar gigs and the taste of cheap beer and Adam's face plastered all over the tabloids at the grocery store.

Adam digs his fingers into his eyes, smearing the liner even more, and when he looks at Tommy again, his face is _wrecked._ "I've made a lot – a _lot_ – of mistakes. More than I could count. But the one that I'll never forgive myself for, the one that I regret the most...it's that I let them talk me into leaving you."

"You make it sound like we were ever together," Tommy says, and there's bitterness there that he can't quite keep silent.

"I know, Tommy, _god_ do I know, but...there was something. You remember, you _have_ to, because I can't forget. And I've tried, I've fucking _tried...."_

Adam comes closer, close enough that Tommy can feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell the unmistakeable scent of him, rich leather and chalky makeup and something else, something undefinable and sweet. It takes Tommy back to another time, another life, and his body reacts as if he's never left, as if no time has passed and nothing has changed, as if forgive and forget is actually possible instead of a stupid made-up greeting card sentimentality.

He looks up into Adam's eyes and shivers at the intensity there, or maybe it's just the wind, raising goosebumps on exposed skin.

"Can't we...can't we just say I fucked up, and just..."

"Just what, Adam? Pretend like it never happened?"

"No! But–"

"Because this isn't a fucking _game_ to me. I'm not you. I wasn't born talented and beautiful and with whatever fucking snake-charmer thing you have that makes everyone fall in love with you. You were my _chance,_ man. The only one I ever got."

Adam's crying harder now. "I'll make it up to you, I swear, anything it takes, anything..."

"You can't. Five years, Adam. Five years with no phone calls. No visits. Not even a goddamned _text._ And now you expect me to believe that what you really wanted that whole time was to be with _me?_ Not a fucking chance." He can feel tears beginning to prick at his own eyes, anger spilling over his cheeks.

And Adam does what Adam always does in the rare occasions when words fail him. He steps forward and pulls Tommy into an all-encompassing hug, tight and warm and wet where Adam's tears melt into Tommy's hair, and Tommy's arms go up out of sheer instinct, hugging Adam back, and he buries his head in Adam's chest and, for just a moment, lets himself enjoy it.

The wind rises around them and the waves crash onto the shore and the moment stretches, changes, becomes slow and heavy and infused with meaning, and Tommy's resolve is eroding away under a constant stream of sense memory, reason withering as his brain becomes overwhelmed with thoughts of _Adam-Adam-Adam._ He shifts, looks up to see Adam's face, and Adam looks back down at him, and everything's moving too fast and in the wrong direction, but that's not how it feels, not at all, especially when Adam leans down and Tommy arches up and they're kissing, slow and tentative quickly evolving into deep and hard, all the aching desire of five years of separation bleeding out through bruising lips and thrusting tongues.

Tommy finally shoves Adam away, heart pounding and head spinning, and he's so fucking turned on he can't even see straight. He can't do this, _can't,_ and if he looks at Adam one more time, sees the heat in those eyes, he's going to be lost in them forever. Instead, he turns his back and just starts running, kicking up sand as he heads for the water. He can hear Adam calling after him, but the waves are louder now as the tide comes in, and the words are lost on the wind.

The water is icy cold, and Tommy wades in ankle-high, crouches down to dip his hands and splash his face, squeezing his eyes shut against the salty sting. But it's not enough, not enough to cool the twisting heat within him, so he goes to his knees, lets the water soak through his jeans and watches as the waves play around him.

He's shivering by the time Adam wades in after him, stepping in front of him and blocking his view of the ocean, bending down to see his face.

Adam's voice is toneless as he speaks. Dead. "I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry, Tommy. For everything. I'll take you home."

Tommy lets his eyes drift up Adam's body, slowly, slowly, until he meets Adam's eyes, and in the darkness, they match the color of the water, dark and powerful and timeless, and they look like adventure and home and everything that Tommy's ever wanted, right there, right in front of him, and within reach for probably the very last time.

He reaches up and gets a handful of Adam's shirt, and with one sharp tug, he pulls Adam off his feet and down into the water, and then they're kissing again, falling together like the most natural thing in the world, like the moon, like the tides. The world is cold, but Adam's mouth is warm, and Adam's hands come to his face, holding onto him like he's afraid Tommy's going to slip away, and Tommy's still gripping Adam's shirt, unwilling to let go.

They spread magazines over the seats of Adam's car to protect the leather, and Adam turns the radio on and sings along as they drive. Tommy shivers the whole way home, but he's smiling, and every so often he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the side mirror, and he looks younger, somehow, like the years have been scrubbed away from his features, leaving him clean and pale and new.

They don't have sex that night, too drained, too overwhelmed. Instead, they crawl into Tommy's tiny creaking bed, hair still damp, and fall into an exhausted sleep, still holding on, clutching at each other, hardly able to believe.

Tommy's last thought as he drifts away is of sea-foam on the water, how quickly it's there and gone again, as if it never existed at all.


End file.
